


Masquerade

by Djinnaat



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-02
Updated: 2016-09-02
Packaged: 2018-08-12 16:29:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7941364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Djinnaat/pseuds/Djinnaat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grace Abigail Mills is an orphan who finds herself employed in the household of a mysterious young baron, Lord Ichabod Crane.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> ***PLEASE NOTE, I HAVE UPDATED THE TRIGGER WARNINGS IN THIS WORK. After careful consideration, there is some "dream" fondling that may be considered non-consensual. While there is no intercourse in this piece, I want to be mindful of the sensitive subject of consent and err on the side of caution.*** 
> 
> This work is mainly set in the Northern United States and England during the Victorian era, directly after the First Boer War. British spelling (i.e. "parlour" vs. "parlor") is used throughout, and certain terms common to the time are used as well. One resource I used was Eighteenth Century Vocabulary (http://andromeda.rutgers.edu/~jlynch/C18Guide.pdf). Note this is non-canonic (except for Ichabbie references!), but certain characters from Sleepy Hollow and other literature appear.

Grace Abigail Mills was bone tired but grateful. She climbed the steep stairs to her room at the back of the house; it was a testament to her employer’s esteem that she (along with an aged, kindly butler, Mr. Jenkins) was one of the few servants who had their own dwelling. Granted, there were very few servants puttering around in the huge estate, but it still made her feel special. This was the first time in her young life that she had her own space, and she kept it, along with the rest of the mansion, immaculate. A few scant years ago, she was an orphan in a precarious position; Fate had dealt kindly with her and allowed her to find employment with Lord Percy Standifer. A jolly old gentleman, he had been visiting the States with his taciturn, but kindly wife, Lady Edith Purefoy Standifer. 

Grace Abigail, or Abigail, as she was called by her employers, was working in an American magnate’s home where she and a number of other young girls had been placed by the orphanage. In those days, finding gainful employment was difficult, but the orphanage was different from so many in that era in that they truly cared about their young charges. The nuns had no illusions that the orphans would ever be the cream of society, but they taught them to read and write, had daily Bible lessons, and gave them all a strong work ethic. Morning prayers were followed by a hearty breakfast; chores were done in the orphanage, each according to his or her age. After a light lunch, there were lessons in mathematics, English grammar and literature, and geography, among other subjects. After schooling was complete for the day, supper was served, Scripture was read, and after evening service in the adjoining convent, the children went to sleep feeling a little less lost, alone, and sad.

The older children were taught a trade; boys were taught animal husbandry, woodwork, or other practical skills, while girls were similarly taught cooking, cleaning, and handwork, be it sewing or embroidery. At the age of sixteen, the orphanage assisted their charges in finding employment. Unlike other places, Saint Clare of the Lilies searched for suitable positions, interviewing prospective employers before entrusting to them, according to the nuns, that which they held most dear, their beloved boys and girls. Abigail had been fortunate, blessed if one were to believe the elderly nuns (which she did without reservation), to have received a position in the household of Master Jonathan Wainwright Miller, a wealthy industrialist whose mansion was located not far from where she was raised in Upstate New York. 

An amiable man, he treated his servants with respect and kindness, seeing to their welfare as he did with his own family. Those orphans who had siblings were not split up; rather they were allowed to work with their brothers and sisters, so long as everyone was diligent and honest in their work. Although a kind man, he had no time for fools, tricksters, or lackadaisical people, and that extended to his employees. However, he never turned anyone other than the most vile or dishonest employees away without at least a month’s wages. He single-handedly kept many a man or woman out of the poorhouse or workhouse. 

When he was visited by a mutual business acquaintance, Lord Percival Reginald Standifer, and his lovely wife, Lady Edith, he was struck by how the couple took to one of his favorite servants, Grace Abigail. A young orphan of colour, the young girl, who was no more than seventeen by his count, was mature, quiet, and sensible. She was a modest girl; the nuns had raised her well. She was meticulous in her duties, and while quiet and reserved, she had a brilliant, though somewhat rare, smile. A lovely girl, really, he thought, wondering when some locksmith or tradesman would take notice of her and take her to wife. No matter, the girl was here for the time being, and she proved her mettle day in and day out. 

The older couple would often ask for her specifically to bring their afternoon tea, and although she was a common maid, she always served them with a shy smile and the same meticulous attention to detail with which she did everything else. The petit fours were always fresh, the scones with clotted cream rich and tasty, and the tea served with the utmost grace. Lord Standifer always took this occasion to tease her mercilessly.

“Ah, there is my lovely little gigglemug, Abigail,” he would say, which would always send her into a rare fit of the afore-mentioned giggles. He would then take a gold coin and place it in her hand with a wink and surreptitious glance at Master Miller, who turned an indulgently blind eye to his guest’s shenanigans. 

As was her nature, Abigail would save her coins and, come Sunday, always make sure to put a tenth of her wages, including these generous gifts from her employer’s guest, in for her tithes. She would then take another portion and buy herself a yard or two of fabric; not only did she learn how to keep a household, do basic arithmetic, and read and write at the orphanage, but she was also a talented seamstress, often making her own clothing, from her petticoat to her gown and bonnet. Late at night, when she wasn’t too tired, she would hand-embroider her bonnets and linens, adding fresh daisies, blooming hyacinths, and fanciful birds in flight to the plain cloth. Some days the mistress of the house would even approach her and offer her an additional coin or two to brighten up her kerchief or favorite pillow. All in all, it was a pleasant life. So it was with some surprise that Master Miller informed her that Lord and Lady Standifer had taken such a liking to her that they had offered her a housekeeper’s position in their own home.

To say that Abigail was taken aback was an understatement. True, she was an orphan, but she had made friends with the other girls from the orphanage who were also in Master Miller’s employ, and she treasured her weekly visits to the church where she first learned of Christ’s love. Then, there were the nuns. They were all like mothers to her, and she would miss them terribly. Still, she was terribly fond of the ruddy-cheeked, jovial old Englishman and his more reserved, but infinitely kind wife. She knew it would be a long journey, but she made it gladly, saying tearful goodbyes to her adoptive brothers and sisters, the nuns, and the Miller family, who made her promise that, should she not be happy, she would return home to them.

That she ended up in a remote Scottish castle with the kind, yet somewhat standoffish Lord Thomas and his son, Ichabod, still seemed unreal to her. It was a cruel twist of fate that ended the lives of the two people she had come to care for so deeply, almost like a mother and father - Lord and Lady Standifer. A freak carriage accident had taken Lady Standifer immediately, with Lord Standifer succumbing days later, a tearful Abigail by his side. They had made arrangements in their wills for the continued employment of their staff with various friends and relatives. Lord Crane was a much-trusted business associate of Lord Standifer; thus, Abigail found herself in the employ of the elderly man and his oft-absent son.

Abigail’s thoughts drifted back to her current circumstances. Castle Blackthorn. An immense, drafty, and somewhat lugubrious structure, it suited its current owner. A man of indeterminate age, Lord Ichabod Crane was an enigma. Although she thought him to be not much older than she, he had the air of someone much older. An old soul, as Sister Mary Margaret used to say. He was also an orphan, though Fate was much kinder to him (although she couldn’t complain). His mother, Lady Millicent, had died of consumption when Ichabod was a youth; he was the only child of Lord Thomas Crane. The elder Lord Crane died a few years ago, right after Abigail came to Castle Blackthorn. He died fighting in the Boer Wars, and from what she could tell, the younger Lord Crane was never the same. 

He had been before that a bon vivant, never at the Castle, but rather courting the young ladies in the parlours of London, Paris, and Milan. However, when his father died, a part of him seemed to have died with him. Although Lord Ichabod was sowing his wild oats far afield, he would still make periodic trips to check up on his father and his affairs; he had, in some corners, the reputation of being quite the ladies’ man, and had broken quite a few hearts, including a few ladies who fled tearfully back to their husbands, but he was still a loving and dutiful son who knew what his limitations were. There were no Crane bastards, nor were there any suspect business dealings as Lord Ichabod had not only inherited his father’s piercing light blue eyes, but also his business acumen and good sense. 

Lord Crane was kind to Abigail, if somewhat reserved like his father; from what she gathered, they had vast holdings in London, Devonshire, and even as far afield as Tuscany, among other places, but they preferred the seclusion of the castle the elder Lord Crane had inherited when he married his Scottish wife. On the coast, near the city of Edinburgh, Blackthorn was a craggy old castle with a small village attached. It was a quiet place, but full of superstition and myth. The most prevalent was that of the avenging angel. A dark angel to be sure, it visited swift and bloody vengeance on the guilty. Often, the townsfolk would find the burnt remains not far from the scene of the original crime. For that reason, crime was almost nonexistent in the area, for which she was very grateful.

From the portraits in the parlour of the great house, Abigail could see that Lady Millicent, mother to the younger Lord Crane, was a great beauty. With coal black hair and brilliant green eyes set in a flawless, patrician face, she peered out of the canvas for all eternity, her beauty never faded by time. Lord Crane took his darker hair from his mother, along with her patrician good looks, while his fair, almost alabaster skin and cerulean blue eyes came from his father’s side. There were many Crane ancestors that possessed the same striking features, dating all the way back to the Norman conquerors.

Tall, elegant, and refined, Lord Crane struck a handsome figure in his attire; even on the coldest, dreariest day, he was always dressed beautifully. Although he had become much more reticent following his father’s death, he still enjoyed the finer things in life, be it the finest Port or the most succulent portions of mutton and pigeon pies. Abigail didn’t quite understand her reaction around him; she felt like a shy little schoolgirl each time his eyes strayed in her direction, which, thankfully, was not often. 

Because of his title, vast wealth, and elegant demeanor, he was still the most eligible bachelor for miles. While he kept to himself for the most part, he would, from time to time, host a ball with the noble families in the area. The young ladies, in their finest Parisian gowns, filed into the usually quiet ballroom. The silver had been polished to a brilliant shine, the crystal chandeliers were dusted, and the rich tones of the fine mahogany and teakwood gleamed in the subdued light. All the young ladies and their parents filed in, each more resplendent than the other; robust, rosy-cheeked blondes here, fiery-haired, alabaster-skinned redheads there, and beautiful, exotic brunettes to round out the spectacle were all paraded in front of the young heir like cattle. Abigail was glad in that moment for her lowly status; she hoped for nothing more than a good, kind, God-fearing man who would work hard to provide for her and the family she hoped to have. 

On her rare trips to town, accompanying the butler and other staff for provisions, she knew she caught the eye of more than her share of the young men. She was one of the few people of colour, although there were a few men of colour who came from across the Empire to better their situations. She was grateful that the Crane family was well-liked, as well as well-respected, and that respect was extended to their help. 

After her last trip, she came in to find the young master in his study. He surprised her by calling out to her by name.

“Abigail, come in for a moment,” he said, holding his hand out beckoning to her.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Abigail's hard work brings her to her employer's attention, and she receives a reward she never imagined.

Fear gripped her suddenly. Although he was a kind employer, he didn’t often pay much attention to the staff, rather letting them attend to their business as he attended to his. The look of melancholy that appeared on his handsome face when he learned of his father’s death rarely left, and now was no exception. She couldn’t think of anything she had done wrong, but she knew that in some households, staff were more subject to the whims of their employers.

Quietly, she went to stand before him, eyes downcast.

“Now, child, do not fear me. You are not in any trouble,” he said softly, briefly touching her shoulder. 

When he did so, she felt like a thunderbolt had struck her. She hadn’t been touched by many men in the past, and definitely not her by employers. They had always treated their staff with a great deal of deference; she had heard rumours of other households where the young women, especially the pretty ones, feared the coming of night – which often meant the young sons of their masters were on the prowl, and many a flaxen-haired maid or buxom brunette cook found herself packed off to the countryside in shame. Although she had grown up in a very cloistered environment, because they lived in the country, she saw the animals in rut and understood that the happenings between a man and woman were somewhat similar to the beasts of the field. She also knew she would have to submit to her husband once married, for his happiness, as well as for the family she so longed for.

Although they were probably not far apart in age, she had also heard rumours about the young lord, that he had broken many a heart of women even twice his age, unmarried or spoken for. Still, she did not see him with anyone since he had returned for good after his father’s demise. True, he didn’t spend every night in the castle, but once inside the hallowed halls of his ancestral home, he treated it with the reverence it was due.

“Come now, child, look at me. I only wish to see to your welfare. I know you are far from home, and you are very close to the nuns at the orphanage where you were raised, from what I hear, as well as to poor old Lord and Lady Standifer, God rest their souls. Tell me how you are faring, if there is anything you need, or if you have any difficulties acclimating yourself to your new home.”

Abigail stood in shock for a moment, surprised yet pleased that her hard work and modest demeanour had helped her stand out with the young master. A small, shy smile crept onto her young face, and she timidly looked up through her long eyelashes at the young man who stood a good foot taller than she.

She gracefully curtseyed, casting her eyes down again, missing the matching smile that lit the sad, blue eyes momentarily. Taking her hand, he led her over to a lovely antique chair and motioned for her to sit. He then went to the liquor cabinet and poured them both a small glass of Port. He handed the dainty glass to her and sat opposite her, crossing his long legs as he considered her.

He had, of course, seen her around the house; she was, after all, his housekeeper, and even at her tender age, ran the household with the precision and smoothness of a much older matron. Still, he studied her face as she shyly sipped at the fine Port, eyes looking anywhere but at him. She was such a tiny thing, just a slip of a girl, really, not even coming to his shoulder, but her modest dress hid a body lush with womanly curves. Her skin was flawless, reminding him of fine teak, gleaming with an inner light. Her curly hair was captured under her demure bonnet, but he had seen her once or twice with it undone, with the ebony curls reaching well past her shoulders. Her eyes were a dark brown, with hints of golden lights in their depths, and framed with full, long inky lashes. Her full lips were a deep rose, with the full Cupid’s bow hinting at a latent sensuality. All in all, she was a great beauty, made even more beautiful by the fact that she seemed completely unaware of her charm.

Lightly clearing her throat, Abigail nervously replied to her employer, fidgeting slightly under his intense blue gaze.

“Milord, I thank you kindly for your concern. I am most grateful to you and your father, God rest his soul, for taking me in after losing Lord and Lady Standifer. They were, if I may say so, more like my parents than employers, and I must confess to missing them greatly. However,” she continued, tilting her chin up slightly and squaring her slim shoulders, “I have no doubt of their current dwelling, and I know that they rest along with your beloved father and mother in the arms of our Lord. Other than missing the Standifers and, of course, the nuns of Saint Clare of the Lilies and the friends, no, family, I had made there, I am most content. I only hope that I can live up to and exceed your expectations of my abilities, Milord.”

Lord Crane nodded, impressed with the young woman’s poise. Although she was a few years younger than him, his vast experience made him seem eons older. Still, without benefit of his education and upbringing, as well as the Crane’s generations of careful breeding, she comported herself ably in the face of a member of the Peerage.

“Well said, my dear. I quite understand a bit of nostalgia for that which is lost to you, but I hope that I have in some small way made up for your loss,” he added carefully.

Abigail shot up, clasping her hands in fright. “Oh, no, Milord, you misunderstand me! I am most happy here, truly. It is a new experience for me, and I am so thankful for the opportunities you give me to prove myself every day. I take great pride in what I do, and I enjoy all of the staff.”

Seeing he had frightened her, he immediately stood and took her by her shoulders, looking down on her with compassion. “No, my dear, you must never fear me, nor anything in this house. This is your home now and for all time, and you must never think that your hard work, diligence, and wise decision-making are not appreciated. In fact, I only fear that some fine fellow is going to swoop down and steal you from us one day. So tell me,” he added, releasing her and going back to his previous position, “is there a young man in town who has caught your eye, or who perhaps has approached you for courting? You are of an age where many young girls have wed and started a family, and if that is what you wish, then Castle Blackthorn shall miss you, but that is your right.”

Abigail had returned to her seat, and she nervously began curling her fingers in her full skirt, wishing for nothing but to disappear. She looked across at her employer, who was studying her intensely, his pale face dimly illuminated in the candlelight, his eyes seeming to bore into her very soul. How should she answer? She had no swain knocking at her door to ask for her hand, but she knew that her hope was, some day, that would happen.

“No, Milord, I have no beau waiting for me,” she responded, her voice barely above a whisper.

He studied her in silence for a moment. “Very well, Abigail. You will, of course, let me know if some young man approaches you, especially if he does so in a less than respectful manner. I shall not have the young girls under my employ treated with anything but the utmost respect, is that clear?”

Standing abruptly, she nodded, swallowing nervously. “Yes, Milord, you are most gracious and kind, and I thank the Lord each day that I have found such an understanding and upright employer.”

Motioning with a long finger, he merely nodded and said, “Sit, please, Abigail, there is something else I wish to discuss with you.”

She sat quickly, her mind racing. So far, he had asked after her general welfare, her marital status, and now what? With each moment, she became more and more unnerved. She felt like one of the unfortunate insects pinned to a board in a museum she once visited.

“I beg your pardon, Milord. I am at your disposal,” she replied meekly.

“You know how to read and write, correct? As well as something of mathematics?”

“Yes, Milord, I was often complimented on my penmanship in school, and the nuns even taught us a few words of Greek, Latin and French. They felt it was important for us to know more than how to work with our hands.”

“Very well. I want you to assist me with my bookkeeping. You will turn over your housekeeping duties to one of the young ladies who you feel is most trustworthy, and you shall work with me in maintaining my lands and other assets. What think you, Abigail?” he added, smiling gently at the look of utter disbelief on her face.

Abigail was speechless. She thought that she had reached the apex of her career, as housekeeper in charge of a great castle, yet here she is, being asked to assist with running the affairs of her employer. She could only look at him, eyes wide, mouth agape. Finally, his deep chuckle roused her out of her reverie.

“Oh, my dear Abigail, I see I have left you speechless. Fear not; you do not have to make a decision right away, but I would ask that you give it some thought over the next day or so. I would like to move forward with your transition as soon as possible since I am looking at acquiring additional real estate.”

Lord Crane gracefully rose and crossed to Abigail, holding out a hand for her to rise.

“Until the morrow, Abigail. Sleep well.”

Although she had had a taste of the wine her employer had offered, Abigail found herself far from sleep. Finally, however, the wine took effect. What then transpired shook her to her core.

She found herself sleeping in her bed, a wild storm raging outside, as she snuggled deeper into the soft, warm down covers. It was then that she felt a cold draft. It pierced her like a mid-winter’s wind, cutting to the bone. Then, she felt a feeling of indescribable warmth. It lulled her into a state of semi-consciousness, halfway between wakefulness and sleeping. It was then that she felt it. Like a cool hand, sliding up her calf, curving itself lovingly around the smooth, muscled flesh, making its way to her full thigh, then stopping at her rounded hip. It traversed her hipbone to her belly, where it generated a surprising heat, one that she had never felt before. From her belly, the coolness traveled up her ribcage, fanning out to capture a full breast, kneading the soft mound tenderly. This only intensified the warmth pooling in her belly. The dark peak of her bosom stiffened, causing her to close her eyes against the sensation. As the coolness traveled to her neck, she felt what seemed like cool lips nibbling and biting gently at the sensitive skin, drawing a soft moan from her lips. 

It was then that she awakened. It would be a dream that would repeat itself on almost a nightly basis, but this first night, it was very unsettling. It was perhaps the strange dream that had visited her when she first closed her eyes, or the subsequent warmth in her belly that kept her from returning to sleep. She lay awake thinking about the strange happenings of the day; maybe it is a sign that she is to undertake this new journey - this new sensation swirling in the pit of her stomach, part excitement, part fear, part something yet unknown to her.

Later on that morning, although she had barely slept, she rose quickly, dressed for the day, and descended to the study where she found her employer.

“I accept, Milord.”

With a faint smile, he gestured for her to enter and poured her a celebratory glass of wine.

“Now let us see if your aptitude for all other things holds true for your abilities with numbers.”

For the next several days, the house was abuzz with activity. From giving instructions to Penelope, a young maid who had proven herself to be a hard worker and in possession of a level head, to going over ledgers, deeds, and a slew of other documents, Abigail was exhausted, yet exhilarated. With every task he put before her, she was not only able to master the task after a very brief instruction, but also to provide helpful feedback. It was well into the evening that Lord Crane interrupted their conversation and insisted she take a bite of food; they had been so immersed in her tutelage that they had completely skipped afternoon tea.

“Oh, Milord, I am so sorry. I have kept you from your tea! My sincerest apologies,” she added, contrite for having caused him to miss his afternoon meal.

“Nonsense, child, when serving in wartime, we missed many a meal and lived to tell the tale. I must admit, I am overjoyed at your progress. I believe you will be my greatest boon.”

Abigail flushed a deep rose at his heartfelt words. 

Just then, Penelope arrived with a small entourage of servants carrying delicate pastries, savory meats, and steaming tea. She gave Abigail a broad smile as she had the staff arrange the aromatic treats on an empty table. They finished by bringing two comfortable chairs from the other side of the room and setting them on either side of the narrow table. Lord Crane nodded to Penelope, who ushered the staff out, closing the door behind them. He then crossed to the liquor cabinet, pouring each of them a glass of fine Burgundy wine.

“Sit, Abigail, and bless our meal so that we may commence.”

As soon as he sat across from her, she obliged, both of them tucking into the delicious fare. From time to time, Abigail would surreptitiously look up to find him assessing her as she ate. She already felt very self-conscious, what with her being a member of the serving staff a few short days ago, and now her colleagues waiting on her. And sharing a meal with the brooding, handsome owner of the estate.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The masquerade begins...

“Abigail,” he interjected suddenly, causing her to start and almost drop her fork, “I think it would be nice to liven up this old, musty relic a bit. I had thought of a costume party, a masquerade ball. What think you?”

Quickly recovering from her start, she nodded as she dabbed her lips with the linen napkin. “I find the castle quite charming in a dramatic, elegant way, but if that is your desire, Milord, I am most happy to accommodate your wish. Please let me know how you would like to proceed.”

He went on to detail how he would like to have a historical theme. 

“I believe I shall come in a period costume of one hundred years or so ago, around the time your country gained its freedom. I shall encourage all the servants to dress in such attire as well, in order to complete the mise en scène,” he exclaimed, getting up and pacing, more animated than she had ever seen him. “I will leave it to you to work with the staff to ensure their costumes are ready. You will send for my tailor at once, as well as Madame La Fontaine, the best seamstress in these environs. Go now, child, and get started, we don’t have much time.” 

“Oh, by the way,” he interjected, stopping her flight from the study, “work with Penelope to make sure that the house is ready. If you have faith in her abilities, I do as well,” he added, flicking his wrist slightly to dismiss her.

The next few days were a flurry of activity. Abigail had not had time to catch her breath from the day-long meetings she had with Lord Crane to review his financial practices, ledgers, and other documentation. Now, she was dispatched to the nearby town to meet with Madame Marie-Sophie La Fontaine and Master Jacob Davidson, Lord Crane’s tailor.

She met first with Master Davidson, briefly outlining what Lord Crane had in mind. He clapped his hands in glee at the thought of designing real period costumes; after setting a time for the tailor to come to Castle Blackthorn, she hastened to see Madame La Fontaine.

When she entered the small shop, she was astounded by the sights and smells. Fragrant unguents and perfumes gave the long, narrow room the air of a beautiful flower garden, interspersed with spicy notes that Abigail did not recognize. The smells that greeted her paled in comparison with the explosion of colour and texture that met her eyes. Every shade, every hue was present. Shimmering silks, luxurious velvets, and intricate brocades lined every wall of the intimate space. A lovely woman with blonde locks, exquisitely dressed, came to greet her.

“Bonjour, mademoiselle, may I help you?” she said, taking in the young woman’s simple, modest clothing that hid great beauty.

“Bonjour, Madame La Fontaine, I am Grace Abigail Mills, the bookkeeper for Lord Crane. He has sent me to ask for your assistance in planning a soirée at his home – a costume party with a late 18th century theme.”

Madame La Fontaine visibly brightened upon hearing Lord Crane’s name, and she cast an assessing gaze at the young bookkeeper. Although she knew that Lord Crane had reformed some of his rakish ways upon inheriting his late father’s estate, she was certain that this fact had not rendered him blind. Or any less of a man. Still, the young woman appeared to have been raised by nuns, judging by her modest dress, obvious education, and prim demeanour. This was going to be fun…

For the next three hours, Madame La Fontaine took the details of the women she would be dressing; since Abigail had been responsible for procuring, or in some cases, sewing uniforms for the staff, she was aware of their measurements. She chatted with the seamstress regarding the young ladies’ other characteristics.

“Well,” Abigail began, “Penelope is a lovely, fair young lady, very modest in dress and demeanor. Lizzie is red-haired, with a creamy complexion, very pretty really, freckles, and a ready smile…”

She continued through the whole household, having addressed everyone but herself.

“Now, ma chère, it is your turn,” Madame La Fontaine interjected, once again giving Abigail an assessing glance. “You are quite lovely, and in keeping with your position of confiance with Lord Crane, you must dress the part. While you are still but a servant, to be frank, you are the closest to the lady of the house that Castle Blackthorn possesses. You must therefore look the part.”

Abigail blanched visibly at Madame’s bold statement. Lady of the house? She was a mere orphan, dependent upon His Lordship for her daily bread and a roof over her head. She would not dare compare herself to the grand ladies who had graced the castle’s halls.

“Oh, no, Madame, I am but a poor orphan, a simple girl, really, raised by nuns in a small village called Sleepy Hollow, in New York, in America. I am not, nor shall I ever be, a great lady.”

Madame La Fontaine smiled indulgently, patting the distressed girl on the shoulder to calm her down. “Now, now, my pretty, there is no harm in what I say, and I daresay Lord Crane would agree. But,” she added, “let us not continue down that path. Let us instead find you a dress that will complement your abundant charms.”

Still uncertain, Abigail put herself in the vivacious Frenchwoman’s care. It was decided that Madame would create a special dress for Abigail, due to her slight, but curvaceous figure. Madame was practically salivating over the brilliant colours she could use to play up the young woman’s flawless, exotic beauty. She would be, she decided, Marie-Sophie’s chef-d'œuvre, her masterpiece. She wondered for a moment if she was doing the young woman a disservice; tongues were sure to wag once the bon ton saw her in her glory, but she always took a somewhat devilish glee in flouting societal norms. She would remain faithful to the girl’s youth and inexperience while creating an ethereal confection that would highlight her graceful curves and alluring charms.

The morning of the masquerade ball, Abigail was a bundle of nerves. Everything had been put in place for the ball, with the usually somber hall completely transformed into an elegant, majestic masterpiece. Madame La Fontaine and Master Davidson had descended upon Castle Blackthorn in a flurry of activity; armed with a small army of assistants and staff, they made final alterations, made sure the staff was perfumed and clean, and demonstrated how to properly wear the more formal attire. The young ladies of the house, in particular, were giggling at the thought of looking like “real ladies;” however, there was one young woman who was awaiting the soirée with a sense of dread.

Abigail had always been the sensible one; now that she was His Lordship’s bookkeeper, she was aghast at the monies that would be used for such an affair. Although Lord Crane had many holdings and assets, and this was a mere frivolity to him, Abigail took her duties seriously. Then, there was the dress.

Madame La Fontaine had insisted on the colour: a pale rose pink, the pastel colour highlighted, rather than minimized, Abigail’s lovely dark complexion. Lord Crane, ever the perfectionist, had arranged for a coiffeuse for the ladies; faced with Abigail’s natural curls, the matron exclaimed in delight that she would be able to easily fashion the proper hairstyle for the occasion. Thus, Abigail found herself in the lovely silk gown, with her hair in large curls draping over her exposed shoulder and décolletage. The luxurious silk was highlighted with snowy white lace on the sleeves and décolletage, with an exposed underskirt of snowy white silk, heavily embroidered with pale pink flowers. It was a creation fit for a princess, or some otherworldly, angelic being. 

When Madame La Fontaine entered her room, she almost did not recognize the young bookkeeper. Ethereal, indeed! She was a vision! From the natural flush in her cheeks and her glossy curls to the delectable abundance of her bosom and her tiny waist, she was sure to turn every head in the room.

“Ma petite, you are a delight to behold!” Madame La Fontaine exclaimed, “turn around and let me see.”

Abigail dutifully turned in a slow circle, feeling a little less awkward under the Frenchwoman’s kindly gaze. “It’s not too much, Madame?” she asked shyly.

“Non, ma belle, tu es vraiment jolie. You are so lovely. You look like an angel descended from heaven. Now, there is but one thing missing,” she added, reaching in the bag accompanying her. 

“Lord Crane wants to make sure everyone is perfectly turned out for this affair, so he has kindly allowed me access to some of his mother’s jewels. When I saw this, I immediately thought of you.”

With that, she pulled out a velvet case. In the case, Abigail was greeted with the sight of the loveliest pearl and diamond necklace and ear bobs she could ever imagine. She was in awe that something so divine would be hers, at least for the night. Standing in front of the looking glass, Madame La Fontaine clasped the choker around her slender neck and affixed the ear bobs to the shell of her dainty ears.

“Magnifique! You will enchant everyone in the room, I assure you,” the lovely seamstress exclaimed, clapping her hands in delight. “Now, you must go downstairs and see to the last-minute preparations, but be careful to not spill anything on my masterpiece. You must be flawless for this evening.”

All Abigail could do was nod in agreement, all of it seeming to overwhelm her. As she descended the stairs, she saw the master of the house in conversation with Penelope, the new housekeeper, looking lovely in a simple, yet elegant pale yellow gown, and their beloved butler, Mr. Jenkins. All talking stopped, however, as she descended the stairs. As she approached the small group, she couldn’t help but notice how handsome Lord Crane looked, resplendent in a pale blue silk that brought out his stunning eyes. Eyes that were focused on her, unblinking, the irises almost completely swallowing the sky blue of his eyes, making them appear a mysterious dark, midnight navy.

Taking her hand as she descended the last few stairs, Lord Crane stepped back, his gaze never wavering, and sunk into a deep courtly bow.

“Mademoiselle Grace Abigail Mills, all the young nobles will be climbing over themselves, swearing by all that is holy that their books are in disarray and needing your tender touch, if only to have a moment in your presence. I see you have on Mother’s necklace. Well, I can tell you, she would have been most pleased that it was gracing such a lovely, swan-like neck.”

Yet again, her employer managed to render her speechless, this time with his flowery praise, warm glance, and the touch of his long, elegant hand on hers. He briefly pressed a kiss to the back of her hand, causing a shock to flow along her spine. Madame La Fontaine looked on from above, noting the way in which the young baron looked at his servant, as well as Abigail’s flustered response. Being a romantic woman, she of course knew where this was headed. She only hoped for good luck for the two young people, so beautiful, yet so alone in the world.

Shortly after, the guests began to arrive. One by one and two by two, the most elegantly attired nobles and upper-class merchants filed in, gasping in awe at the resplendent decorations. Just as Lord Crane had anticipated, his servants clothed in fancy 18th century attire caused quite a stir, in particular the young ladies. Many a young man commented on finding a girl to take to wife from the common folk, while many a matron and young lady turned up a patrician nose at common servants being dressed so unsuitably. Standing out amongst them was the young bookkeeper, who had begun with the household as a housekeeper. 

The host wandered over to a group of young men who were obviously having a spirited conversation about the young ladies.

“See here, old man, where do you find your help? We would like to hire some young girls like yours.”

Lord Crane allowed himself a small smile and replied seriously, “I am indeed very fortunate to have diligent, well-trained staff. They keep the old house running magnificently.”

“No, Lord Crane, the dark girl there. We hear she’s American. How did you come by that exotic little flower?”

Not liking his peer’s tone, Lord Crane took his time in answering. “She came across with Lord and Lady Standifer, who were impressed by her intelligence, modesty, and industry. Like a daughter to them, she was, until the unfortunate tragedy, at which time she came to us. She was raised by nuns, who taught her reading and writing, mathematics, and even a spattering of Greek, Latin and French. She has been a true asset to this household, and I daresay if she marries one day, we will be the poorer for it at Castle Blackthorn.”

The men looked at Lord Crane somewhat skeptically. One of the young dandies, probably hoping to impress the other gentlemen, scoffed.

“Come now, sir, you mean to say you never fancied the jilt? One look at her baubles, and she could look at my ledgers anytime.”

A glowering look descended over Lord Crane’s face as he stepped closer to the young man. “You know not of what you speak, sir. All the maidens in my employ are above reproach, and I ask, nay, I demand that you refrain from maligning their virtue. For as you malign theirs, you malign mine, as I allow nothing improper within these four walls.”

The young man, blushing furiously, stammered out a humble apology as Lord Crane continued to grace the impudent wretch with a supercilious stare.

Other than small incidents such as these, the ball went well. The guests were entertained and well fed, and they imbibed the finest liquors to their hearts’ content. As she was going up the stairs, Lord Crane called to Abigail.

“Come into the study for a moment, Abigail. I know it has been a long night, but I wish to speak to you for a moment.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **I changed the rating and trigger warnings for this piece based on the non-consensual fondling discussed previously that is explained further in the upcoming chapter.**


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Then truths are finally revealed.

Slowly, she descended the stairs. It had indeed been a long day, and she was loath to be long from her bed. However, when the master of the house calls, particularly one who is so generous and kind, one must answer.

“Yes, Milord, as you wish. The evening went well, did it not?” she said, a rare smile transforming her lovely face into something heartbreakingly beautiful.

“Indeed it did, Abigail, and much of the success is due to you. As you coordinated the costumes, decorations, menu, and entertainment with the staff and Madame La Fontaine and Master Davidson, you are to be complimented. You succeeded in turning quite a few heads, as I anticipated you would,” he added in a teasing tone.

Abigail blushed darkly at his fulsome compliments; she was always so accustomed to functioning in the background that it was sometimes hard for her to accept praise. Especially when it came from a certain handsome young noble. Careful, girl, she thought, the likes of him are not for you, even should you be drawn to him.

As if he could read her mind, Lord Crane took her hand and led her to the tufted loveseat.

“I frighten you, do I not?” he queried softly.

“No, Milord, how could I ever be frightened of one such as you, who is good, and kind, and generous? I would not be so churlish as to even entertain the thought,” she replied softly, studiously looking at the long, pale, cool hands grasping hers.

He didn’t reply for a moment but just sat holding her hands, caressing them softly. 

“Will you permit me to share a great confidence with you, Grace Abigail? It is one that can have earth-shattering consequences should you betray my trust, as well as ensure your demise. But I feel the time is ripe, and I must act.”

Abigail wondered at her employer’s dramatic tone and even more dramatic expression; he certainly looked as if he were Atlas himself, attempting to shoulder the weight of the whole world.

“Milord, I am your humble servant in all things, and should you entrust me with your confidences, I vow to never destroy that trust.”

“Very well, come with me.”

They entered the hall with the family portraits, stopping in front of one his ancestors. 

“You understand that tradition is vital, and the bloodline is nothing short of sacred to a noble, do you not?”

“Yes, Milord, I do, and you must be so proud to be able to trace your origins back so far.”

“We often hand down names, along with titles, as a link to the past. Take here, Sir Ichabod Crane, hero of the revolutionary war, my namesake and grandfather.”

With that, he pointed to the portrait in front of them. If Abigail didn’t know better, he would say it was the Lord Crane standing in front of her. The same lofty forehead, narrow, aristocratic nose, dark hair, and piercing blue eyes.

Slowly, Lord Crane turned to Abigail and took both her hands in his, pausing meaningfully before uttering his next words.

“I chose that time period for the soirée, Abigail, because it was my favorite period of time. Do you understand what I am saying to you?” he demanded intensely.

It took a moment for her to understand his implication. Once she did, Abigail looked in horror at the man before her, then turned to the portrait of his “ancestor.” Moving away from him, she began to pace the length of the room, paying particular attention to the portraits that featured a handsome, serious young man with dark hair. 1791. 1649. 1532…

She turned to him in disbelief. It could not be. As a God-fearing young woman, she also knew of the existence of evil, of those things outside the purview of the natural. Yet here stood a man who had only showed her kindness, and who had always comported himself, at least within these walls, with the utmost respect.

“How, how can this be, Milord? Who are you? What are you?” 

As her voice rose steadily with each question, Lord Crane wondered if he had made a mistake. He knew he wanted this woman as his consort, and he knew from the reaction of the gentlemen at the soirée that, were he not to pursue her, he would lose her. Soon. But the frantic, horrified look on her face was one that he recognized all too well, and it broke something within him to think that this young woman who had so completely enthralled him would think him a monster. But was he not?

“Abigail!” he exclaimed forcefully, stopping her in her tracks. He covered the distance between them in a few paces of his long legs and took her hand. As she began to struggle, he made shushing sounds to try to calm her. Eventually, she stopped resisting, but he could sense her heart beating like a dove’s wings, fluttering madly within her breast.

“Come, Abigail, I swear to you by all that is holy that I shall not harm you.”

Shaking her head, Abigail tried to free her hand from his. All at once, the coolness of his grasp started to make sense as one monstrous thought after another filled her head.

“How can you swear by all that is holy when you are not?”

Her question stopped him cold. She understood, not completely, but in some primitive part of her spirit, who he was. What he was. Yet, it was a good sign that she was not screaming in abject terror. As many of his victims had before they met their fate.

“Have I ever hurt you, Abigail?”

“No.”

“Subjected you to any form of ill treatment?”

“No.”

“Then at least come with me, listen to me. Please,” he pleaded, a look of despair and desperation in his eyes that was so intense that it penetrated some of the horror that filled Abigail’s heart.

“Very well, Milord, I will hear you,” she finally said, allowing him to lead her back to the study and pour them a glass of Scotch.

He perched on the loveseat next to her, not close enough to touch her, but close enough that she realized that the heat that normally emanated from one seated so close was not present. Still, she steeled herself. She knew that the Lord would protect her, so she would not scurry away like a mouse at the first sign of a light.

“Thank you, Abigail. You have perhaps intimated that I am not a normal human like yourself. I was once; however, it was not my fate to perish. During the Norman invasion, I was beset upon, along with my father, by the enemy. A strange being appeared to us, a dark angel with eyes of burnt gold, and asked us if we wished to become God’s sword. As we lay dying, we accepted this gift, or burden, however you choose to frame it. From that day forward, my father and I would appear and disappear in various places, in various times, to do His work.

We do not harm the harmless; it is revealed to us the crime which has been perpetrated and against whom. If the person repents, he or she will be forgiven and returned to God’s bosom. However, if he or she hardens the heart to where there will be no repentance, no remorse, but a continuation of the victimization of the innocent, that is when we intercede. We cannot do it without permission.

Throughout the centuries, the Mason brotherhood has assisted us in concealing our identities. Although we are no longer mortal, we have many of the same desires as mortals do. The desire to love and be loved, feel the sunshine on our face, and hope that our lives have meaning. We will often take a human, mortal woman to wife, but only after she is fully aware of who and what we are, and can love us nonetheless. So it was with my mother, by whom I was not born, but who spun the tale that I was born in England, raised there, and then returned once an adult to Scotland. 

We go to great lengths to conceal our true nature; there are those who divine it regardless of how hard we try. When my father went to the Boer War, one of the medical doctors began to suspect. A Dutchman named Abraham Van Helsing. He did not understand our true nature, but he did know how even the immortal can become mortal. With fire, like the fiery depths of Hell. With silver, like the coins that bought Judas’ betrayal. We do survive on the blood of the fallen; in ingesting it, we take it unto ourselves and purify the evil from the land. In burning the remains, it acts as a final purification, a foretelling of that which awaits the evildoer in eternity. It also hides our true nature, which, should the bloodless corpses be discovered, would be exposed.

There will come a time when Evil will walk the Earth, when we must expose more of who we are to humanity. That we exist beyond the veil of the natural. That there is something of the ancient within us. We will choose the moment in time from whence we shall come; when the time comes, I will yet be the Revolutionary War hero that you saw briefly at our masquerade ball. I will have a rational, albeit supernatural means for existing. That will only come in the End Times, however, and not before. We will be called not only to Witness, Abigail, but to wage Holy War.

When you hear of the avenging angels, there are real. I am one of them. Only once in a lifetime, however, are we allowed to choose an immortal mate. Someone with whom we will spend eternity, who will willingly become like us – a force for good, no matter how fearsome to mankind we may be. We will share one blood, one flesh. I have visited you on occasion, Abigail, while you were sleeping. I could not bear NOT to touch you. You awakened something in my spirit that I can no longer deny. I wish for you to be my consort. I believe, in the core of my being, that our destinies are entwined. I choose to forge my fate with you, Grace Abigail Mills, and I ask only that you take my hand.”

With that, Lord Crane arose and stretched out his hand. Abigail hesitated before taking it. It was contrary to everything that she believed that God’s avenging angels walked among us as mortal men, mere sinners, imperfect reflections of the Holy Trinity. Yet in looking in his eyes, she found that she believed him. His words, no matter how frightening, or awe-inspiring, made sense in a way. What better creature to perform God’s work on earth than an imperfect being that would fit in with the rest of society, that could walk amongst men? She closed her eyes briefly and prayed that God would give her a sign. It was then that she felt a peace wash over her, like the surf on the seashore, and she knew she was ready.

She took his hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I chose the Boer War, fought against the Dutch, for a reason, due to the doctor's country of origin. Did anyone recognize our "strange being" as well?


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back in Sleepy Hollow, destinies entwined intersect. An alternate beginning to Season 1, Episode 1.

Lieutenant Abbie Mills had just joined the sheriff’s department in Sleepy Hollow, a small village in upstate New York, a few months ago, but she quickly rose through the ranks. Smart, tough, but fair, she had a nose for sniffing out criminals like nobody’s business. Her boss, Sheriff August Corbin, had often told her she would make a great profiler for the FBI… but he would never let her go. She was just that valuable. She seemed to always be a step ahead of the bad guys; she had also single-handedly saved over a half-dozen people in the short time she had been there, whether victims of kidnappings or lost and missing persons. It was when people started showing up, however, decapitated, the wounds cauterized, that she sensed a great evil.

On a call to one of the local farms, the evil presented itself. A headless demon, he was the precursor to the Apocalypse. Unfortunately, she was not able to save her boss and friend, Sheriff Corbin. As she lay on the ground waiting on reinforcements to arrive, she knew the worst was yet to come. Despite everything, she felt a frisson of fear. It was time.

Dispatch picked up a call from another colleague, Andy Brooks, who said he found a possible suspect. Haggard, dirty, and dressed strangely, like some sort of Colonial reenactor, the prisoner waited calmly in the small prison cell. Abbie came in, and a spark of recognition passed between them.

“Who are you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bear in mind, the Witnesses were never separated... but no one else knew that! I hope you enjoyed on this Ichabbie Weekend! I also welcome any comments/thoughts on my choice to upgrade the rating and warnings for this piece, or just general comments or questions. Thank you for reading!


End file.
